


bronze

by orphan_account



Category: Yuri!!! on Ice (Anime)
Genre: Father-Son Relationship, Hurt/Comfort, Other, Victor is an angsty teenager, Yakov is too old for this shit, bronze medal
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-04-06
Updated: 2017-04-06
Packaged: 2018-10-15 20:06:40
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 922
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10556942
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/orphan_account
Summary: Viktor wins a bronze medal. He comes to Yakov in a state about it, and Yakov is entirely certain that he's getting too old to be compassionate anymore.





	

__And just like that, Viktor is slipping from his grasp.

It's a Sunday night. There's a half-finished glass of whisky on the rocks sitting just across from him on the kitchen counter where it curves into the hotel windowsill, and his computer is still open whispering reruns of some old American sitcom into the midnight. It's mostly there to drown out the sounds of the road - because God only knows he's not going to fall asleep when there's a backed-up caravan being towed just a few hundred metres from where his bed is. He can hear the English couple next door arguing about quinoa.

He feels old. He should be focusing on watching the recording of Viktor's performance right now; especially considering that he's literally curled into his side; but he feels old, and it's only the sudden urge to reach for the alcohol that stops him from doing it. All of his skaters are young (too young), and have also probably broken more bones at sixteen and fourteen and whatever than he has in his five-ish centuries of living, and it isn't even that that gets him. He doesn't even really know what it is, but his wrinkles feel tighter all of a sudden.

Viktor shifts against his chest, sniffs a cold into that damn Makkachin tissue box.

He isn't paid enough for this.

"I'm sorry," He says, and how long has it been since Viktor Nikiforov has actually apologised to him for something? The bronze medal is heavy where it's resting on his knee - he doesn't move it. Doesn't dare. Knows that if he does, he'll be able to hear his Vitya's heart break. He's not young, sure, but he isn't old enough to ignore that yet. He's still got a few years there, at least.

Yakov does not say anything.

It's a cold night. He can feel the frost crawling up his back again, and it's making him stiff. It's colder now that he's there, though, all broken-down. Viktor has never cried in front of Yakov (not since he can remember), and he isn't concerned about that except that now his eyes are shining against the glint of his laptop, and it's utterly, _utterly_ inexcusable.

"Vitya," He starts. There goes the medal. With a resounding flinch, Viktor pulls it from its place and it drops with a dull thud a few metres away, near where the radiator is. He's expecting a shouting. Viktor has always been the type to surprise - he strives for it so much that he does it unconsciously, and he thinks that maybe he'll have to reward him with that little tidbit one day when he's not like this.

He means to finish the sentence. He really does. But his breath catches at the play of the final note, and the results tally rolls into play before he can say anything else.

' _An astonishingly poor performance from Viktor Nikiforov today_ ,' He's never liked the announcer. What was his name - Kubo? He briefly remembers flicking him away once when he missed a boom. Yeah. ' _Is the Russian prodigy losing his spark as a skater? If he's attempting to go for the second._..'

And after that, things just kind of drown out by themselves, because now Viktor is crying, and Yakov really, _really_ needs that to not happen. He is absolutely too sober for this.

" _Vitya_ ," He says again, too desperate to sound professional, and Viktor winces. He is the most incredible level of unique that he has ever witnessed - all flair and pizzaz and depth that shouldn't really be there, and he's proud. So proud. Unbelievably proud. And it seems stupid now, because the realisation is thick and syrupy and definitely not his style, so he just presses his hand to the ear that's away from the wall and pulls him in so his other one is muffled by the hood of his coat. "Don't listen."

Viktor cries for a good half-hour, and Yakov's spine is beginning to hurt, but he lets him until his lips are chapped, and then he hands the boy a water bottle and lets him cry some more. It's only when the fucking caravan pulls out over the highway with a scream that Viktor feels safe in speaking; its low and self-conscious, but at least he's thinking about himself again.

That's how it should be. He's got Yakov to worry about the other things.

"Don't stop being my coach, please." He hiccups a sniffle. Yakov feels him press into him a little, like he's afraid to let go, so he doesn't complain. It does take Yakov by surprise. Not a lot of things get that as a branding deal. The snowflakes in his eyes are beautiful. Beautiful. Frigid, still, but at least the snow storm is gone.

"You cannot get rid of me that easily, Viktor. Someone has to make sure you don't get yourself killed."

That gets a laugh out of him.

(Finally.)

It's hoarse, but it's something. It's enough. And there's a comfortable silence, full of something like respect, and then Viktor's back again, and it's real and genuine and that is what beauty is. Yakov ends up having to carry a sleeping Viktor back to his room, and he's almost one hundred percent sure that there's now a video of him doing so progressively gaining views by the minute, courtesy of Mila. His wrist is encased in those little slender fingers though, and maybe he doesn't need to be holding on so much anymore.

That is what beauty is.

**Author's Note:**

> Yakov as a father figure makes me very happy inside.
> 
> Word Count: 928


End file.
